Darlin' Let Me Go
by PrimaImperatrix
Summary: Snippets (for now) SPOILERS for S10 SPN. Follows "Hellmouths are for Lovers". Dean makes a lot of choices on his own thinking he is doing the right thing, thinking he is protecting people. And, taking on the Mark of Cain to protect Buffy turned into a death sentence. Buffy reacts to Dean's death @ the end of S9.
1. Chapter 1

The doorway was as close as she dared to venture, or rather, that she could even manage. Crossing the threshold of that room made it real- made him really dead, really not coming back. One arm held herself in a bicep crushing hug, the other hung limply at her side. All she could do was stare at the bed where Dean laid, not moving, not breathing, not living. No thought crossed her mind, not even regret, because that would have required more than possible from her numb-shocked mind. She could not think, or speak, or move. All she could do was stare and breathe, and with the love of her life lying lifeless in the bedroom before her, both felt like futile endeavors at the moment.

When her feet finally moved of their own accord, the action threw her off balance, and she stumbled across the doorway. Hesitantly she moved towards the bed. With every step towards Dean's body the duller her senses became, the heavier the weight on her chest, until it was as if she was not longer in control of her own body anymore, merely watching from the inside, trapped inside her own head.

Slumping next to his prone body, she slowly reached for his hand, but her fingers recoiled before they could touch. Instead, her hand dropped to the fabric of his plaid shirt. Clenching the fabric in her tightened fist, she worked the soft, worn material through her trembling fingers.

Soft, but worn out around the edges- just like Dean.

Memories began painfully assaulting her. She remembered buying this shirt for him at a thrift shop in Indiana. She remembered scrubbing the chili dog stains out of the fabric at that laundromat in Oklahoma, rolling her eyes and cursing under her breath something about him being the reason why they couldn't have nice things. She remembered sleeping in it that night in Oregon when they had been forced to crash in the backseat of the Impala.

She remembered the way in which he had slipped it off his shoulders and handed it to her without pretense, simply a gesture of consideration, of affection, of love.

She remembered how he held her against his chest, her arm draped across his chest, his arm securely around her waist, holding onto her for dear life.

She remembered the words he had whispered against her hair, voice heavy with sleep as the drifted off, cramped together in the back seat of the Impala.

 _"Buffy, will you marry me?"_

 _"Obviously, idiot," she answered, voice muffled by his chest pressed firmly against her cheek._

 _"Awesome," he replied, voice barely above an exhausted whisper._

Never opening his eyes, slipping his free hand into the chest pocket of the plaid shirt, he pulled out a ring, slid it onto her finger, and dropped a firm, drawn out kiss to the crown of her head.

Of course, they had never bothered with making anything legal, since marriage licenses required birth certificates and permanent addresses and not being wanted fugitives in more than a few states. They didn't need a bunch of bureaucratic paperwork to tell them what they meant to each other. They were tethered- souls bonded by the Fates personally, chosen from the billions of people on the earth to share one destiny. Plus, the only real benefit to legal marriage were the tax incentives, and when you received the majority of your annual yearly income from hustling pool and credit card fraud, you didn't really worry about paying such nonsense.

Tears were running down her now, and her eyes moved to the ring on her clenched fist. Nothing extravagant- just a simple, antique silver ring he had found at a pawn shop set with a prismatic opal. The very same gem on the amulet that had brought them together in the first place, the night she beat the shit out of him thinking he was a vampire.

Memories.

The thought of their first meeting sent a surge of emotion through her body, and suddenly her brain was processing again. It started building under that weight on her chest, then boiling. If he had come to her in Cleveland, talked to her before acting that night she attacked them in the mausoleum, he would have never gotten hurt.

And, once again, if he had come to her, discussed this with her, he would never have been cursed with the _Mark of Cain_. He would never have gotten hurt. He would be sitting here arguing with her instead of lying here dead. _Again._

The cry of white hot fury that escaped rattled the foundations of the Bunker, echoing off their concrete confinement. She pounded the mattress, busting a spring under her slayer borne, rage fueled strength. A fist came down on his chest, and another, and another. Hysterically sobbing, Buffy wailed and seethed, cursing everyone- Demons, Angels, all their friends who were useless to stop this, God-

"But, no one is to blame more than you, Dean Winchester! We were a team! A dynamic-fucking-duo! Remember!? Were were Batman and Wonder Woman, you selfish, arrogant, son of a bitch! We were meant to do this together! We were supposed to die together!"

When his hand shot up and seized her wrist, it stole away her breathe.

When his eyes parted, revealing solid black pools where dreamy green eyes had once been, it stilled her racing heart.

"Pull yourself together, woman," he groaned, tossing her away with epic demon infused power.

Crashing against the dresser, collapsing into a heap of splintered wood and strewn clothing, Buffy raised her throbbing head from something sharp, and felt blood trickling down her neck. The last thing she saw was Dean looming over her as darkness invaded from the edges of her vision.

She came around to the distorted voices of Willow and Sam, calling her name, discussing her condition... something about concussions. Shaking her head, her vision focused enough to make out the relief on their faces. But, the distraction of something held within her hand drew her attention away, blinking her eyes at what appeared to be a small piece of rolled up paper. Opening her hand revealed it was held together by a silver band.

Dean's ring.

Ignoring their protests not to move, Buffy slid off the ring and unfurled the paper.

 _Darlin', let me go._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:Possibly first chapter for this story.

* * *

The sun reflected off the recent rain slicked road, drying it into uneven geometric patches turned into spray by the wheels of the Impala. Head laying against Dean's thigh, Buffy absently flicked through a Cosmo, laid out across the front seat as her bare feet bounced to the beat in the frame of the open window. Dean's head nodded in unison as he leaned back in the driver's seat, left hand resting on the wheel, right hand gently stroking through the strands of Buffy's wind tossed hair.

" _She stood there bright as the sun on that California coast_ ," Buffy sang, turning the page.

" _He was a midwestern boy on his own_ ," Dean followed, fingers drumming against the wheel.

It was a good day.

Another good day, in fact, in a long string of good days, great months, incredible years.

Since they had stopped the apocalypse (which Buffy liked to remind Dean was her dozenth), this had become standard operating procedure- Buffy and Dean, dusting and salting and burning across the back roads of the United States. With the Bunker now at their disposal functioning as a base of operations, and the library of knowledge provided by the Men of Letters, they had been knocking out big and little bads alike, thinning out the evil herd, just like the old days.

It was repetitive and predictable, and… really fucking nice.

" _And those Hollywood nights_ ," they belted together, " _in those Hollywood hills. She was looking so-"_

" _-kkkkkkkkkkk - diamonds and frills,"_ the radio crackled with static as the Impala rolled out of broadcast range. " _All those big city -kkkkkkkkkkkkk- high rolling hills - kkkkkkkkkk- all the lights- kkkkkkkkkkk..."_

"Damn… you used to be able to get this station all the way through Colorado," he sighed, reaching for the dial. " Sorry, Bob."

"I blame that Steve Jobs fella and his newfangled whatchamacallit," Buffy mocked in an old lady voice as she flipped another page.

Dean responded by flicking her nose. Twisting the dial, Dean was assaulted by a collection of pop and country stations that made him bristle.. A very nineties guitar riff cut through the static for a split second before Dean moved on the next disappointing station.

"Go back!" Buffy squealed, shooting up to her knees.

Backtracking slightly, Dean shot her a questioning look.

" _One, two princes kneel before you, that's what I said now. Princes, princes who adore you_ -"

"Like hell."

"I love that song!" she protested.

Smacking his hand away, Buffy seized control of dial, holding it hostage.

" _Marry him, marry me. I'm the one that loved you baby can't you see_?" Buffy sang, eyes closed and moving to music rather ungracefully for such an agile slayer, " _Ain't got no future or family tree, but I know what a prince and lover ought to be!_ "

Dean's face deflated into an annoyed, dead eyed glare.

"Are you done yet?"

Cranking the volume louder, she drowned him out, now practically shouting to be heard over the radio.

"- _SAID IF YOU WANT TO CALL ME BABY, JUST GO AHEAD NOW_!"

The Impala skid to a halt, throwing the loose rocks on the shoulder, billowing a cloud of dust that consumed the car.

"God damn, woman. Enough of your racket!"

Tackling her, Dean pinned her back against the bench seat.

"Driver picks the music, remember?"

"Shotgun withholds sex until she gets her way."

Dean rolled his eyes, smirking.

"Good luck with that," he breathed against her neck, running his lower lip along the length, smiling against her skin when he felt her shudder underneath him.

"Deviant," she growled, putting up her best effort to resist.

"Tease," he mumbled from behind her ear as his fingertips ghosted over the exposed skin of her midriff.

Doors slammed from the cherry fastback mustang that had been following behind them, and feet crunched against the shoulder rocks in pounding steps.

"Are you guys- ugh..."

"Get lost, Sammy," Dean threatened. "Busy."


End file.
